Pillow Books: Zero & Hiead
by poetisa
Summary: Companion poems from Hiead and Zero's points of view. Yaoi, lime. Rated for themes.
1. Default Chapter

Pillow Books: Zero & Hiead  
  
Summary: Two companion poems from Hiead and Zero's points of view. Yaoi, on the limish side.  
  
Rating: PG-13, for themes.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Megami Kouhosei. Sugisaki Yukiru, Bandai, XEBEC, and the lovely individuals down at Cartoon Network's Adult Swim have dibs. But I'll happily settle for a wall scroll with the fine bishonen from GOA.  
  
Author's Notes: Gentle Readers, first of all, thank you for reading "Quartet." To the good folks from MKML---gracias, especially to Steve Jester. To Nozomi, whose "A Death at Hand" is really crucial reading (and check out the Hiead/Zero Mailing List at Yahoo! Groups). To Cloa---I am glad you enjoyed the poems. To Cassiel Dragonflame---I'm touched. *bows* To Lanae Kou---thank you for the words of encouragement and praise. To UE-- -spasibo, tovarishch! Truly. I do plan on submitting more.poetry and (soon) prose! And I look forward to your reviews as well. And to everyone I haven't mentioned, thanks ever so.  
  
The Pillow Book was a collection of stories and poems written in Japan, around the 10th century, by Sei Shonagon, a contemporary and rival of Lady Murasaki (both were ladies-in-waiting to different wives of the Heian-era emperor). Shonagon wrote about the escapades and trysts in the royal house.kind of an etiquette of Eros.  
  
There's also a movie with the same title, featuring Ewan McGregor as the lover of a woman who transforms his body into a calligraphed text. (The preview features a nude McGregor presenting himself to an older man.so I recall.)  
  
I've been toying with the idea of a prose piece involving, say, Zero walking into the room he shares with Hiead, wearing nothing but ink. Any suggestions?  
  
Comments, critiques, praise, feedback, and flames are welcome. This is how a writer grows, after all.  
  
Again, thank you all. Enjoy.  
  
Antoinette (poetisa) 


	2. Pillow Book: Zero

Pillow Book: Zero  
  
How do the stories begin? Should I say, "Once upon a time"? Weave a tale of a lonely boy, His adventures in a strange world, His fall, his rise. Or perhaps I ought to begin thus: "In another world, in a bygone era, A prince stood at a window Waiting for love to claim him."  
  
But this is neither fairytale Nor heroic saga; The lonely boy, the lovelorn prince- I'm shivering. I'm undone. I'm waiting for you to read me.  
  
You tear me to shreds When you stare through me. You reduce me to pulp When you whisper. You erase my heart When you walk away.  
  
Still, even so, You etch new life When you catch my gaze. You leave poems and prayers When you breathe my name. You color my heart When you touch my face.  
  
Read me tonight- Your favorite story, Changing, infinite: Read me with slender fingers And ardent lips.  
  
Every scene you can imagine Flows, from your eyes, into mine. From my lips, you draw the words: Yes, love, yes, yes, yes. From shoulder and torso, You craft tension and suspense. From the navel, and all that follows, You shape the crisis, the drama, The moment of clarity.  
  
And in your arms, The story resolved, Whispers and caresses Close the chapter On this tale That is ours: My gift to you, For your eyes, for your touch, for your heart only.  
  
What awaits the lovelorn fool tonight? Will a blazing angel transform him with a kiss? Will he meet Cupid, and live to tell? I live to know. So do you. Come closer. Time to open a new page. 


	3. Pillow Book: Hiead

Pillow Book: Hiead  
  
If you are my story, Cover to cover, No end page in sight, How have you Etched your soul Across my marrow?  
  
Troubled and riddled: A book of grey secrets, Some written in tears, With scratched and marred pages- A wise man would consign This text to a furnace.  
  
But heaven smiles on fools, On wild-haired, wild-eyed fools, Whose winter-night depths Promise shelter to seeds And weary creatures Till springtime wakes the sleepers.  
  
To look at you Is to see a vision Of who I have been, and who I'd like to be.  
  
To kiss your mouth Is to speak a new language: The language of trust, the language of yes.  
  
To touch and taste you Is to learn strange grammar, An unfading Braille that marks nerves and skin.  
  
To lay with you Is to join heart to hand, Bound in a mutual, transforming ardor.  
  
I can't tell you What unnerves me more: That you are my book, Or that I am now yours.  
  
I fear surrender: Maybe you'll laugh At this shabby volume And its antihero.  
  
And yet, You receive me As if I were sacred: A gilded, jeweled treasure Open only for you, Read only by you, Known only to you.  
  
And heaven, do smile On this silver fool, As pages turn And two stories entwine. 


End file.
